


The Consulting Professional

by charleif_sprout



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 07:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15968015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleif_sprout/pseuds/charleif_sprout
Summary: Sherlock knew moving into 221B that he had a neighbor in the basement. What he does not know, is who this neighbor really is. She seems normal enough, but something is off, something oddly related to a recent string of very professional murders.





	1. Moving

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Am Locked](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/417926) by EverytimeChelle. 



It was four in the morning, and there were still seventeen unmoved boxes sitting on the pavement. Granted, there were twenty already in the flat, so it was better than nothing, but having started the move at noon the previous day, it was a little pathetic. It was probably all that chemistry equipment. The microscope alone was excessively and unnecessarily heavy. Then there were the jars of everything that ranged from a standard high-school-dissection-grade pig fetus to human eyes and intestines. Of all the things to be on the pavement in the middle of the night, that was probably one of the less wise boxes to leave til later, considering it was (just) one of the things that got him kicked out in the first place.

        "Sherlock, are you sure you don't need any help?" The landlady, Mrs. Hudson came tottering up the stairs, and stood in the doorway. Sherlock didn't bother trying to explain to himself why she was still up at this hour. 

        "No no," He broke his gaze with the wall, "It's fine, I'll deal with it myself."

       "Are you sure? There's a lovely man named Todd next door who I'm sure would love to help. I mean, you don't want to leave those boxes outside all night, do you?" She looked confusedly and disapprovingly about the room, if you could call it that in the homely sense of the word. It contained a couch, a desk, and two armchairs that had been there to start, and the aforementioned twenty boxes shoved against the walls. Sherlock had been standing there for the past half an hour, staring at the wall for a reason that was likely apparent to him, but to no one else. He turned around to face the landlady, strode over to her, and began his explanation, very quickly, however with a high caliber of diction and a slight lick of sarcasm, or condescension, depending on how you look at it. 

        "If you wish, Mrs. Hudson, I'll move the boxes inside, next to the foot of the stairs, but I have no desire to have them venture up the stairs and into this flat at the present time, nor do I have the desire to wake poor Tomas at, what time is it? Four twenty-six A.M?"

        " Four-thirty dear," Mrs. Hudson replied, "and it's Todd, not Tomas. I suggest you get that in that speedy brain of yours in case you ever meet him. And yes, you may, but they've got to be gone from there by tomorrow night, I don't care where they go." 

        "Thank you," Sherlock gave her a constructed smile, "And for your information, given the time table I depart from my living space in comparison to the average British citizen, I calculate only a fifteen percent chance that I will ever cross paths with Todd in a situation in which I would be required to converse with him. Aside from that, even if the encounter were to indefinitely occur, I have far more pressing things that require space in my brain to remember that the name of my neighbor. Good night," he loped past her and down to stairs to attend to the abandoned boxes, and closed the door in one swift motion. 


	2. Neighbor

       As Sherlock hiked up Baker Street, bright pink suitcase in hand, muttering incoherently to himself, it started to rain. Although not a rarity in central London, the downpour was rather concerning when Sherlock realized quite abruptly that he'd left his newfound roommate back at the crime scene. He only noticed this when he asked for an opinion on his work, and heard no reply from his partner in crime. All impoliteness aside, it'd only taken him twenty minutes to find the case, and the only shame Sherlock felt was that there was no one around to appreciate his success. I mean, usually the praise was useless and a given, but this time he felt his did a rather good job, and deserved the ever-so-slightly annoying "amazing!" out of John. 

        The only other person out of doors at the time was a woman walking down the sidewalk from the other end of the street, and it would be impractical to expect praise from her. Once Sherlock neared the door into the set of flats labelled 221, he expected the woman to pass him, however, she did not. She instead veered quickly from her path and loped up the steps to the door, pulling out a key and inserting it into the lock. 

        "I'm sorry," Sherlock stopped at the base of the steps, "I think you've gotten the wrong street or something. That's my flat." She cocked an eyebrow and looked down at him skeptically.  

        "Are you the bloke that left all that bloody science equipment at the bottom of the stairs?," she asked, like she'd been meaning to ridicule him about it, "I tripped over the boxes and nearly broke a damn microscope, you twit. If you're gonna leave all those boxes about, at least leave the light on." 

        "What flat do you live in?" Sherlock asked, puzzled, stepping up on the stairs to face her, "Last I thought, there was only 221A and B."

        "Nope," she shook her head, which was cast in shadow because of the odd angle of the streetlamp light, "There's a small, one-bedroom flat in the basement. It's just me, and Mrs. H wanted an excuse to clean it out," she explained off-handedly, "What's your name? Before I forget to ask."

        "Sherlock," he answered, "My roommate's name is John. He's short, blond, walks with a limp. He'll probably be down in a few hours. Yours?" 

        "Charlie," she gave a little smirk, only slightly visible through the shadow on her face. She shifted her weight, and that moved her out of the shadow a bit. She was a bit shorter than him, about 175 cm tall, with shoulder-length ginger hair and brown eyes. Right handed, nail biter, coffee drinker, night owl, dog person, newspaper reader, the small increase in visibility caused deductions to dart from Sherlock's eyes to his brain rapid fire. She was wearing an off-white blouse under a emerald peacoat, with blue jeans and brown boots. Most likely akin to the average British citizen. That, however brief, was the only look Sherlock got of her face. 

        "Well," she broke the silence, interrupting his thoughts, "I'd best be getting inside. That rain'll be pouring down in a minute. Cheers." With that she pushed through the door toward her basement flat. Not seconds later, there was a thump and the sound of glass against glass. 

        "And clean up this bloody chemistry set or I'll kill you!"


	3. Speedy's

"So this is the cafe that's responsible for your less-than-abysmal nutrition," John remarked before biting into a sandwich. They were both sitting at a dinky table beside a dusty window in the small shop adjoined to their residence. Small was truly the only word that could have been used to described it. The cafe was composed of two glass cases filled with sandwiches and breads, separated by a small counter; about four or five two-person tables, and a miniscule walkway behind the counter which held the cash register and a depressingly decrepit coffee machine. It would have been a wonder that the place was still open after an indeterminable number of years, but one couldn't imagine that it was at all expensive to keep in business. 

        "It's cheap and open almost twenty-four hours," Sherlock stated simply, not eating anything at the moment. Truthfully, it likely was the reason he consumed any food at all, given that he had no knowledge of cooking beyond making tea or pushing buttons on a coffee machine.

        "Hmm. Pretty good, for three pounds though," John noted, "So I was thinking of writing up that case you just finished, the one with the Cabbie and the pink lady."

        Sherlock snorted, leaning back against the wall, "Make sure you neglect to mention that it was you who shot him, it'll get you in a tad bit of trouble."

        "Yes, I'll make a lengthy feature of your mental prowess without including my illegal doings," John chuckled, about halfway through his sandwich now. 

        "Don't give it a ridiculous title," Sherlock interjected in a non-sequitur manner, as though it had been on his mind and he'd only just remembered to say it; or, if you prefer, to interrupt John laughter just to be an arse. 

        "What do you mean?" John replied, a smile remaining from his giggles still on his face. 

        "Crime blog posts always have ridiculous titles," Sherlock pointed out, "Like, 'The Poisonous Widow' or 'Hell Hath no Fury like a Flight Attendant Scorned', or some rubbish like that," he waved his hand in a gesture of lunacy. 

        "I'll try not to," John answered, grinning. He turned to look out the window, back towards the flat, "Do you reckon they've finished cleaning up?" he said in reference to the recent "drug's bust" that had been deterred, now that Sherlock had caught the killer and was no longer under suspicion. 

        "The flat will be fine. I'm more worried about Lestrade's pride," Sherlock quipped, also glancing in the direction of the flat. But there was something on the street that made him make a double take. A figure, clad in black, had shot out of an alleyway and was loping down the road towards them. It was taking large, light bounds, staying close to the sides of the buildings and avoiding street lamps. Sherlock was prepared to deduce all he could once the figure dashed past, but the opportunity never approached. Instead of running past them, the figure hopped up the steps to 221, shoved a key in the lock frantically, and before darting inside, looked quickly over their shoulder, then disappeared behind the door. 

        It was only a couple of seconds, but it was enough. The figure had short, black hair. 

        "John," Sherlock said warily, still looking intently at the street in case the figure returned, "Does our neighbor have a flatmate?"


	4. Too Clean

     It was the ding of a his cellphone that snapped Sherlock out of deep though late that night. He had been lying nearly comatose on the couch, previously deaf to the sounds of John returning from work and Mrs. Hudson running the vacuum three hours earlier. However, this relevant sound had registered in his brain, which had been busy cataloging the germane differences between several lethal toxins and deleting the rest. Couldn't be a client. Anyone with a case would call or email, something more formal. Couldn't be John, the only time he texted rather than calling was for quick communication during a case, and at the moment, they had none. Besides the fact he was probably asleep. Probably not Mycroft, there was a cabinet meeting going on tonight. Lestrade?

     Correct.

     3 murders in 3 weeks

     All same day of week

     All killed with same kind of rare bullet.

     No other connections

     Yes or no?

     Absolutely. Leaping off the couch, Sherlock traded his dressing gown for his coat and his slippers for dress shoes. As he was pulling his scarf around his neck he glanced at the clock on the mantle. 1:09. That was late even for Lestrade. He was probably having a row with his wife. Tossing his phone into his pocket, he started down the stairs, but stopped at the sounds of footsteps by the front door. Did he wake Mrs. Hudson? He peered around the post of the railing and saw the ginger-haired woman (Was her name Charlie?), locking her flat door behind her. However, she now wore all black under a grey peacoat, and her hair looked a slightly darker red than before. It pulled back with a knit hat over it, and she carried a suitcase with her. In the light of the hall, Sherlock could see her a little better, and deductions flew off her in all directions. Seamstress, newspaper reader, coffee addict, left-footed, right handed, heavy makeup, shaky, vitamin D deficient, previous leg injury, new clothing.

     She turned around and flinched, suddenly smiling.

     "Oh, hello!" she greeted him, still smiling.

     "Hello," Sherlock answered, descending the last set of stairs to meet her, "Going on holiday? At this hour?" He gestured to her case.

     "Oh no, I'm off to return this to a friend. They work the late shift down the pub," she held up the case, "What are doing out this late?"

     "Fish and Chips," he shrugged, lying, "Oh, I meant to ask, do you have a flatmate? I thought I saw someone else going into your flat late a few days ago."

     "No, I don't have a flatmate," she answered, brow furrowed, thinking, "I do hope it wasn't a break-in. I haven't noticed anything missing."

     "They had a key," Sherlock replied pointedly.

     "Oh, then it was probably my friend Annie. Her boyfriend's a cock, so she's got a key to my place, just in case."

     "Didn't you see her?" Sherlock asked, seeing the hole in her story.

     "No, I was away for business, hence the need of the case," she replied, "Anyways, I'd better be off. Pub closes in half an hour. See you 'round."

     "See you 'round," Sherlock raised a hand behind him before slipping out the door and onto the dimly lit street. There was quite a lot of traffic for past-midnight. Perhaps everyone's friend was returning from holiday. Sherlock quickly hailed a cab and directed them to Scotland Yard. As the cab wove through the abundant London traffic, Sherlock quickly began brainstorming possible solutions. God, he hoped it was a serial killer. They were so fun, despite being fairly easy. They always had something to prove, and were always incredibly creative.  
     After taking a few left turns through various back streets to avoid the second rush hour, Sherlock had arrive at his second home, Scotland Yard. When he pushed through the door and turned on his heel towards Lestrade's office, he observed the considerable lack of people around. During a seemingly big case like this, there would be people here working way overtime, even if they were just doing the paperwork. About now, there only seemed to be a few eager and caffeinated interns and some seedy Detective Inspectors brainstorming.  
     Sherlock took the normal amount of twists and turns through various cubicles and offices to the back of the building, where the homicide unit was housed. He was happy to find the forensics department uninhabited. When he reached homicide, most office lights were off except for Lestrade’s and a few others. Sherlock was nearly relieved to see the cubicle marked Donovan unlit.  
     Sherlock rapped twice on the frosted glass bearing Lestrade’s name and title, which was promptly opened by Lestrade himself, whom, without a word, beckoned Sherlock into the office. He sat down at his desk, and gestured for Sherlock to sit opposite. There were three photographs spaced evenly apart on the polished but somewhat faded wood. Each photograph showed a single victim, with a bullet hole squarely through the center of their forehead.  
     “What do you make of it?” Lestrade asked tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He hoped it was comically obvious and this case could be wrapped up in the next day or two. But instead of giving a quick and supercilious answer, Sherlock stayed silent, his brow furrowed. After a few seconds, his eyes snapped quickly up to Lestrade’s as he said,  
     “Give me details.”  
     Lestrade wanted to slam his head down on the desk. So much for quick.  
     “Well, you know the basics,” he began, “they were all killed a week apart, all on a thursday, at about the same time of night. The killer used the same type of bullet from a non-automatic long-range military grade shotgun. All in the center of the forehead. The victims have no common race, sex, religion, or orientation across the three of them, and they don’t seem to be connected to each other in any way. As far as details go, there isn’t much. They were all killed in semi-public places. None of them in their homes, but none of them where many people would be,” From what Sherlock could see of the photographs, one was killed in a car park, one in an alleyway, and another in Hyde Park.  
     “This sounds like the cabbie case,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “not as suicides though. CCTV catch anything?”  
     “They did, but nothing useful,” Lestrade replied, “The view of the one in the car park was blocked by a parked van, and you can’t see the one in Hyde because of the shadows. We checked the other feeds around Hyde and the car park. The owners of the van were the ones who called us and they have alibis, and there’s no image of a killer walking out of Hyde Park on the feed we checked, or of the surrounding street feeds.”  
Sherlock stared off into a corner of the room and was silent for about a minute. By now Lestrade knew he was thinking, in his mind castle or something, sometimes it took seconds, sometimes he didn’t move from that position for hours. Lestrade was considering getting up for a coffee when Sherlock said,  
     “It wasn’t a murder, it was a hit.”  
     Lestrade snapped to attention, “Sorry, say again?”  
     “It was a hit,” Sherlock repeated, “A hired hitman, and a lazy one at that. Assuming all three victims had the same killer, it has to be. A clean, well aimed shot with an obscure military-grade rifle, especially a long-range one, has to be professional. No sight of the killer would mean they were shot from afar, so CCTV would be useless,”  
     “That would also mean there were any witnesses of the killer,” Lestrade sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in defeat. Sherlock continued staring at the pictures of the victims. Small deductions flew of what was visible in the photographs.  
     “I need profiles on all the victims,” he stated simply, “give me all the information you have here now and email me the rest.”  
     “Will that help you find the killer?” Lestrade asked, handing Sherlock a sizable folder of papers and other photographs.  
     “Nope,” Sherlock snatched the folder out of his hand, “But it will help me find the next victim.”


	5. Target Practice

     John yawned as he shuffled down the steps to the living room, unsure of what had woken him up at 6am. He had almost opened the door when he got his answer. Three shots sounded sharply, and he simply nodded and instead went through the door into the kitchen. After making his normal morning tea, he strolled across the living room to the small table by the window, making sure to walk behind Sherlock, who shot at the wall three more times.  
     “Bored?” John asked, unfolding the newspaper and stirring the cream into his tea.  
     “Nope!” Sherlock yelped jovially, “New case!”  
     “Since when do you have a new case?” John looked up, raising an eyebrow, “you spent all of yesterday either complaining about not having one, or ‘in your mind palace’ on the couch.”  
     “Lestrade texted me around midnight. Clearly a professional murder, which should make this interesting,” Sherlock grinned at John excitedly, “the professionals always know how to cover their tracks.”  
     “Hold on-midnight?” John looked at Sherlock like he was a teenager coming home drunk, “I suppose you spent all night doing this,” he gestured to the papers covering Sherlock’s side of the table, and the photos and notes strung up on the wall, “Why are you shooting the victims’ photographs?”  
     “Oh,” Sherlock launched into case details, “the three victims have seemingly no connections- no common race, sex, etc, they didn’t know each other, and have virtually no social connections. However, they all live alone, and all made plane trips to Dubai within the last year. Only one is an British citizen, however none of them were born in the UK or had parents born in the UK. Each person was killed at approximately the same time on three consecutive thursdays, in public but not well populated places, each person was shot square in the forehead with a long-range sniper rifle that-”  
     “Why?” John interrupted tiredly.  
     “To see how good of a shot the killer is,” John looked behind Sherlock at the three photographs. Each photo had two shots, only one was in the forehead at all.  
    “But the killer used a long-range sniper rifle,” John replied, beginning to scan through the case papers on Sherlock’s side of the table, “they would have hit their mark no matter how a good shot they were, those have scopes that make aiming spot-on.”  
    “Yes, but the bullet holes were in the exact center of each victim’s head. I had Lestrade measure,” Sherlock added. He paused, John raised an eyebrow, “. . . and I wanted an excuse to shoot the wall,” Sherlock continued sheepishly, “Oh it was partially relevant!” he relented when John rolled his eyes.  
     “Any crime scenes to investigate?” he said as he turned the newspaper page and taking another sip from his mug.  
     “No, unfortunately,” Sherlock grumbled, “each murder was a week apart and they left when they didn’t find any evidence.”  
     “So, how are we going to go about this one?” John called behind and he got up to put two pieces of bread in the toaster.  
     “Figure out who the next victim will be. Lestrade’s done all my dirty work for me,” he gestured aimlessly behind him at the pile of papers on the table, “He’s sent me a list of flights to Dubai in the last year and who on the flight was a London resident who wasn’t born in Britain. He’s talked to the families, they didn’t know each other and-”  
He was cut off by the sound of his phone ringing. Sherlock saw Lestrade’s name on the caller I.D and snatched up his phone to answer it. John took the butter out of the fridge.  
     “What?” Sherlock snapped hurriedly at the phone.  
     “Another one,” Lestrade said, his yawn audible over the phone, “We have reason to believe it’s connected. Same conditions as the previous three, in a back hallway of the tube.” Sherlock took the phone away from his ear and called,  
     “John! What day was it yesterday?”  
     “Thursday,” he replied in monotone, half listening while buttering the toast. He’d started to tune Sherlock out the more excited the man got. At this reply, Sherlock’s eyes widened with glee, a grin creeping across his face,  
     “Oh Lestrade, it’s connected! What section of the tube? I’ll be there in half an hour.”  
    "Brixton underground station, you can’t miss the police tape,” Lestrade answered as Sherlock abruptly hung up the phone, catching the toast John tossed him, with his other hand. John had barely sat down to eat his toast when Sherlock tossed his dressing gown onto the sofa and traded it for his regular belstaff coat, muttering excitedly and yelling about some Game, gesturing for John to follow him. John rolled his eyes, tucked the toast and a napkin in his pocket, and patiently put on his coat. He was right to expect to be in no hurry, as Sherlock came grumbling up the stairs a moment later, having forgotten his shoes.

                                                                                                                  ---

     “This one’s different,” Lestrade said to Sherlock as he led him to the crime scene, Sherlock raising the police tape for John, Lestrade not questioning his presence this time.  
      “There’s an exit wound,” Sherlock replied, glancing at the large pool of partially dried blood pooled around the victim’s head.  
     “We think it’s the same, but we can’t be sure unless we find the bullet,” Lestrade scratched the back of his head, yawning.  
     “Measure the head, it’s exactly in the center, same time of death and type of location. Exit wound would likely mean they were shot at close range, probably by the same gun.” Sherlock looked up, “Any witnesses?”  
     “One, actually,” Lestrade answered, “Graveyard shift maintenance worker. Fixing a dodgy bit of track when they heard a shot, thought it was another train switching tracks. When they went to put away their tools, they found the victim here. We’ve checked the cameras, victim came off the 12:30 train, one of four passengers to get off. Three went directly up to the pavement, he went off down a different hallway. CCTV shows him walking ‘round this corner, and a few seconds later you hear the shot. No camera feed showed anyone walking to or from the crime other than the maintenance worker, and another camera shows him working on the track a few platforms down.  
     “There wasn’t a camera in this part of the hallway?” Sherlock looked to Lestrade for confirmation.  
     “No, it’s a dead end,” Lestrade gestured to where the hallway stopped a few feet away, an advert on the wall, “The only thing is this closet where a few of the workers wash and store their tools.”  
Not answering Lestrade, Sherlock looked intently at the little closet. The door was open, the victim lying across the threshold, half in the closet, half out. The only things in the closet were a few brooms, a large sink and a dustless rectangle on the floor where the toolbox would have been. Lestrade, John, and the other officers were looking at Sherlock like children watching a magic show, waiting for him to make some clever deduction. He continued to stare at the body, before looking sharply up and around the corner at people coming up and down the stairs. With rush hour nearly over, only two men and a red-haired woman passed in front of Sherlock’s eyes.  
     “Lestrade,” Sherlock said, still staring at the platform, “How big would the suspected assault rifle be?”  
     “Probably about a meter long, smaller if you disassemble it, it’s got three pieces.” Lestrade shrugged, “Why?”  
     “I’ve got an idea,” Sherlock answered, swooping out of the crime scene, John hurriedly in tow.


	6. Identity Crisis

   “Sherlock!” John whispered, “Why are we still here?”      “Shh!” Sherlock replied, “I’m sure they’ll be here, I know it.” 

     They had been hurriedly following their suspected victim for the past two hours, trying and probably failing to be as inconspicuous as possible. It was Thursday night again, and after comparing the list of people on the flights, they had determined this man to be the next likely victim, despite the fact that Sherlock had little other evidence to go on. 

     “How do you even know it’s them? You’re going on practically a hunch!” John asked, trying to keep up with Sherlock. 

     “Because they fit the pattern and besides, I have a better hunch about who the killer is,” Sherlock continued to stare at their target in through the window of a cafe from the bench they were sitting on across the street, “Anyway, look at him, it’s nearly half-eleven, and this guy is having  _ coffee.  _ Nearly-empty shop, sat in a back corner table that can still see the street. He keeps looking out the window, but not at us, he’s trying to avoid someone. If he’s seen the news he knows he’s next.” 

     “Or he’s just waiting for someone,” John argued, “Could be meeting a friend off the tube.” 

     “No, can’t be,” Sherlock scoffed, “He’s definitely an isolated homebody going by his clothes, gait, and posture. He’s not from the U.K, he’s American in fact, going by his trainers. If I’m right he’s here for work of some kind, and has family nor friends here, and the probability of a man who fits our pattern hanging out in a coffee shop for nearly an hour and a half near midnight just being there to meet a  _ friend  _ is lower that the probability of Lestrade solving a case by himself. He’s trying to stay somewhere populated, with witnesses, he thinks it will protect him.” 

     No sooner had Sherlock finished speaking, the man in the coffee shop got up and began hurried putting on his coat.

     “Look he’s leaving,” John jumped up from the bench as the man hailed a cab, quickly ducking inside the first one he could. Sherlock leapt up and began running in the opposite direction. 

     “The cab’s headed south!” John called running after Sherlock. 

     “He’s headed to his flat, which is down this way, he’s taking a convoluted route on purpose,” Sherlock yelled back as John caught up with him. 

     Sherlock already seemed to know where the man’s flat was, as they took a right, a left, and went forward for a few blocks before stopping abruptly in front of a set of flats only a few blocks from Baker street. Sherlock somehow had a key, and they were suddenly bounding up two flights of stairs and supposedly in the man’s flat. 

     They had beat him by barely a minute, as the flat was empty when they arrived, but they heard footsteps coming up the stairs soon enough. Sherlock grabbed John by the sleeve and pulled him into a closet of the man’s bedroom only seconds before he frantically burst into the flat, locking several locks behind him. 

     “How did you have a key to the building?” John whispered, out of breath. 

     “Nicked it from Lestrade. One of the other victims lived in this building. Just luck that his flat was unlocked.” 

     The man rushed into the bedroom, locking that door behind him and setting a chair under the knob, and running over to the window to lock it. Sherlock and John listened intently for footsteps on the stairs, but could only hear the man’s rapid breathing and his fumbling with the window blinds. 

     Silence filled the room momentarily before being interrupted by the sound of breaking glass and a muffled yell. Opening the door a crack, Sherlock saw a figure in black tactical gear grappling with their target, who nearly overpowered them, pulling their black knit hat off, but in one quick motion, the attacker had one hand over the man’s mouth, the other pinning him into the wall. They were slightly shorter than the man, but managed to keep his struggling limbs still, and was speaking to him in a hushed voice. They had what looked like a large sniper rifle slung across their back. The man tried to argue whatever they were saying, but the figure pulled back suddenly, swung the rifle off their shoulder, and cocked it, pointing it at the man. 

     “You were given a warning,” they said in monotone before a shot rang out and their man crumpled to the floor, blood quickly spilling out behind him. 

     Sherlock and John burst out of the closet, lunging at the intruder, who whirled around, hitting John around the head with the rifle, and ran straight towards the window. The hazy streetlight illuminated dark, disheveled brown hair and a face that Sherlock quickly recognized. With the rifle slung around her back again, she pulled out a handgun and fired two shot just after Sherlock had dove to the floor. By the time he was up on his feet again, she was gone. 

                                                                                                         ---

     Soon after a quick telephone call to Lestrade, the two detectives were sat in the back of an ambulance again, no shock blankets this time, although John did have an ice pack pressed to the side of his head. 

     “How’d your little stakeout go? Did you catch any details about the killer?” Lestrade strode over, a notepad in hand, “This one breaks the pattern, any reason why?” 

     “He was sat in a coffee shop until half-eleven, then rushed home for no reason,” John reported, “Killer broke in through the window.” 

     “Ah, then that explains this text,” Lestrade pulled out the victim’s cell phone from the evidence bag, and showed them a text on its lock screen that said  _ I can see you _ . 

     “He receives that text, so he panics and runs home,” Sherlock muttered, “Any other texts like that on the other victims phones?” Sherlock asked, brow furrowed, eyes still on the screen. 

      “Not that we can find without a passcode,” Lestrade replied, “This was the second victim shot at close range, do think there’s any reason for that?” 

     “Probably, but I’m sure you won’t figure it out,” Sherlock said almost absent-mindedly and promptly stood up, “I’ll call in the morning if I think of something,” he said behind him as he began walking back to Baker street, John following. Lestrade was left only to be confused at Sherlock’s sudden disinterest. 

     The return trip to Baker street was only a few blocks, and not much conversation, as John was pretty much sleepwalking. It was now nearly one in the morning, and the hit ‘round the head hadn’t exactly woken him up. Once they were back in 221B, John went straight up to his bedroom, not noticing Sherlock heading down the hall to the third apartment. 

     Sherlock had almost opened the door to 221C when he did a double take, his mind backtracking to something he saw on the steps. He went back over to the ascending stairs, and saw three marks that weren’t there when they left. Small burns on the wood, about a centimeter wide, about the width of a gun barrel. Sherlock looked up the stairs, and saw the door to the living room was closed, unlike how they had left it. He slowly climbed the stairs, not sure what to expect. He turned the knob of the living room door, and entered slowly, closing the door quietly behind him. 

     When he turned around to face the room he saw, sitting in his chair, his neighbor from down stairs. The same neighbor who he’d seen from speedy’s rushing into the flat late at night, and the same neighbor who he’d seen commit a murder only a few hours earlier. 


End file.
